Life Among The Dead

by Daniel Cotton

  “I was upstairs,” She begins to tell them in a whisper. “I heard the popping sound you guys heard. I was already going to take a look, to see that crash we heard earlier when I came back through…” she lets her voice trail off and just points to the window.

  Stevie takes the cue. He creeps to the window and lifts the bottom of the white vinyl shade. He sees hundreds of people walking along the street. From the left of his view to the right.

  “That is odd.” He admits. As he continues to watch he starts to see just how ‘odd’ it is. He takes note of the way people are dressed; bed clothes, business attire, one woman is completely naked. He notices they all walk in a drunken stumble and share the same lifeless expression. What really strikes him as peculiar is that most of them are wounded and bloody. He sees a paperboy crawling along with the others, one of his legs is gone, only a bloody stump. “Jesus Christ! This is really fucking odd!”

  Derek watches his friend leave the window, his face now set in an expression like Becka’s. Fear. It’s his turn to look. He creeps to the window and lifts the bottom as Stevie had. He doesn’t know if he wants to see whatever it is that has creeped his friends so much. As he crouches to view the street via the slit he made, the shade’s recoil is triggered sending it up towards the ceiling out of his hand. It flaps loudly as the mechanism’s force causes it to spin on its rod.

  Derek freezes, mesmerized by what he is seeing. Have I fallen asleep? He asks himself. He wonders if this is the result of exhaustion and too many scary movies. He remembers laying his head on the uneven card table.

  “Get down.” He hears Becka say from a million miles away as his brain struggles to analyze this impossible equation. He is pulled down next to his friends on the floor. His hand lands at the baseboard right onto a carpet tack. A brief flash of pain and he knows this isn’t a dream. His mind is brought into the frightening daymare that is unfolding in his neighborhood.

  “They’re coming.” Becka says, peeking over the window sill. Her voice is choked with fear. “What do we do?”

  “Basement.” Stevie says, already crawling back to the kitchen. Derek grabs his ankle.

  “No,” he commands. “Upstairs. Move!”

  The trio race to the stairs and scramble up to the second floor. The three childhood friends can hear moaning coming from below and the sound of hands slapping against glass and wood.

  In the hall Derek hops up to grab a dangling cord as his friends shift nervously from foot to foot. It takes him three attempts until he gets a hold of it and uses his weight to lower a panel from above. It opens revealing a collapsible ladder built into the house’s structure that leads up into a dark space above them. The ladder won’t unfold.

  “It must be rusted. We have to boost each other.” Derek says, placing his back to the wall and lacing his fingers together between his knees.

  “Becka.” He says and she steps into his hand with her bare feet. She extends herself up to the defunct ladder while Derek heaves her upwards. She leaves his hands and is groaning as she hauls herself the rest of the way up.

  Downstairs, glass is breaking. Shards of the windows fall to the carpeted dining room floor tinkling against each other.

  “Boost me Stevie, and then Becka and I can pull you up.” Derek says.

  Stevie complies. He puts his back to the wall as Derek had and helps his buddy reach the ladder. From his vantage the skinnier boy can see down the stairs. He’s relieved to see nothing yet. The moans are much louder now that the windows are broken. More glass falls, crunching under unseen feet.

  Stevie looks up and sees Derek is struggling to pull his weight over the edge of the hole. Becka is trying to pull him by his belt the rest of the way. Derek makes it and the two disappear into the opening.

  A look to the stairs reveals shadows being cast by unsteady figures. The heavy thumps of bodies falling into the house through devastated windows can be heard. The moaning fills the air.

  “Come on, Stevie.” Derek yells down. The stranded boy looks up to see his crony hanging down as far as he can face first. One hand is outstretched the other desperately tries to maintain a hold on the aging wood of the ladder.

  The boy jumps up and latches onto the offered hand. Both have sweaty palms and he slips right out of Derek’s grasp, falling to the floor with a thud.

  “Again.” Stevie hears from above as he gets to his feet. He is about to jump once more when the stairs creak. He looks to the sound and sees slack faced figures slowly climbing up to him. Their moans vibrate the walls. The boy franticly looks up to the crawlspace, his eyes meet Derek’s.

  “Come on.” Derek says calmly.

  Stevie wipes his hands across his shirt and lunges up to meet his friend. He gets a grip on Derek’s pudgy fingers with both hands. He slides a little but refuses to let go.

  “Climb!” Derek yells with a voice full of strain. Stevie kicks his legs until he locates the wall. He starts to walk up the off white surface as Derek pulls. Becka aids the portly rescuer by pulling back on his shoulders.

  Slowly Stevie ascends to the ladder as a handful of figures start to fill the hall. He looks down at their dead faces; their hands reach for him trying to grab his skinny, dangling legs. He can feel fingertips graze the fabric of his pants as he clings to the useless ladder. He manages to get his right knee onto the lowest of the rungs. His other limb is ensnared in a viselike grip before he can get it up.

  The thin boy screams as an icy cold hand slips its emaciated digits under his pant leg. Stevie thrashes against his assailant as he is dragged down the wooden ladder. He fights to kick free, struggling to maintain his hold on the splintered wood. He screams out in terror, unable to jerk his leg free before he loses his grip.

  Stevie hovers in space the center of a tug-o-war between the living and the dead. Derek has the smaller boy by his armpits. He and Becka redouble their efforts to raise their friend. The frigid hand loses the battle.

  The three exhausted teens fall backwards into a cloud of white insulation. They just lay in the soft cottony piles, not daring to move.

  5

  Able to breathe easy, Dan sits in the dim foyer of number 32. He knows he should inspect his new surroundings before declaring the place safe and dropping his guard. He forces himself to stand. His rifle is in his hands as he proceeds through the house.

  It’s very quiet. He is in a living room furnished with modest do-it-yourself fare. He sees a couch facing an entertainment center and a couple of recliners. Two lamps cast an orange glow upon everything. He doesn’t care about the décor; he just wants to know nothing is moving.

  Dan feels uneasy. He has a tight, tingling sensation in his chest he hadn’t felt since he was much younger. He had broken into an old barn near his uncle’s place out in Newcastle on a dare. He knew the place was abandoned, and it wouldn’t hurt anyone, but it was still off-limits. The act filled him with a sense of dread. He hates the feeling.

  The soldier continues his slow trek across the worn beige carpet that probably used to be white. His black leather boots step around children’s toys as he scans every angle. Blue steamers hang from the ceiling, tickling the top of his shaved head.

  Dan reaches the center of the room and is turning to get the whole panorama. Behind him a banner is taped to the wall that reads: Happy Birthday Jimmy!

  That explains the streamers, Dan says to himself. Against the back wall of the house is a pile of presents. The festively wrapped objects obscure the view to the television. He wonders if there is any news yet about today’s occurrences.

  He lays his rifle against the wobbly entertainment center. One at a time, and as quiet as he can, Dan moves the packages. The gifts vary in size and shape. He catches himself shaking one like a kid on Christmas. He chalks this act up to human nature. It’s natural for a person to be curious and need to know.

  The set now exposed he locates the remote stuck between the cushions of a large stained couch. The place is definitely lived in, he thinks to himself as he
sinks into the plush seat letting out an involuntary sigh. The place is very inviting. The uneasiness he had felt abates, although he still has a sense of heightened awareness. He is paranoid that at any moment one of them will sneak up on him. The soldier looks over the back of the sofa towards the front door a couple of times before turning back to the television. All that is behind him, as far as he can see, are toddler toys and action figures.

  He should be able to relax and catch some news, perhaps figure out a safe route home. He aims the remote at the tube and hits the power button. A deep click follows. The set warms up for a few seconds before Dan is bombarded with a blast of music. The screen fades in displaying dancing puppets that caterwaul in high pitched voices.

  He tries to mute the singing, but it won’t cease. The fuzzy creatures are prancing about in a forest of make believe as Dan flails around with the remote trying to silence them. He ultimately gives up on the idea of muting the monsters and just switches the set off again.

  Frozen in place, he remains in an awkward stance residual from his wrestling match with the remote. One knee is on the floor, the other leg had somehow laid itself over the coffee table. Dan’s arms still hold the remote aloft. He rises slowly as if any haste might bring the noise back.

  The man tiptoes to the front of the house as if his silence and wishful thinking will make up for the noise he just made. He wants to take a peek out the window to see if his ruckus has brought their attention to him. Even before looking outside he knows they have heard him. He can hear them. Their moans are getting closer. A handful of them are coming towards the house, curious and hungry.

  The soldier runs to the couch and dives over it. He had left his rifle by the television leaning on the entertainment center. He tries to grab it with his left hand, but he’s still holding the remote tightly in his grasp.

  “Fuck me.” He curses himself, absently pocketing the remote and taking up the weapon. He can hear them. The zombies are at the door and the windows. Their moans are like sad pleas. Dan is close to hyperventilating. He gulps air in ragged breaths, unable to get enough. Palms are slapping against wood and glass. He can see silhouettes against the curtains. He wonders how long the glass can hold them back. Their moans get louder and louder as more and more arrive at the house. It almost sounds like they’re inside already, Dan thinks, looking around for an exit.

  To the right of the television is another thick curtain that’s hung higher than the others, only an inch or two from the ceiling. On the adjoining wall Dan spots a door. He is relieved to have a few options. He is hoping the curtain is covering a door to the backyard of the dwelling, and a way out.

  On his way to the curtain the door next to it swings open. A blonde woman pushes through with her body. She is in a blue sundress and has a very classic look that reminds Dan of old black and white sit-coms. Detracting from her beauty and perfect make-up is the lazy way she walks towards him, her arms outstretched. Her subtle eye shadow is sullied by her vacant stare.

  The soldier takes a step back and aims his rifle. He only has the two rounds and is debating whether to use one on the ex-house wife or not. He takes another step back as she advances, wanting to maintain distance between them. His heel locates one of the errant toys and before he knows it he is falling backwards. His foot flies out from under him and he lands hard on his back, the impact causes him to tense his trigger finger, a shot is wasted into the ceiling. The rifle’s recoil makes it jump from his hand.

  The woman in blue is almost on top of him and he is without a weapon. He settles for the object that tripped him up. Dan takes hold of a large plastic train by its pull cord. He wraps the string around his hand few times as he scrambles backwards trying to keep away from the corpse.

  The man stands up and swings the makeshift melee weapon at her head as glass begins to crinkle behind him. The zombie takes the blow to her temple, becoming off balanced. Dan swings again, and again driving her back until she flops over the couch. She clumsily topples to the floor. The soldier discards the choo-choo and unsheathes his combat knife. The prone zombie is trying to get to its feet. Its arms flail grabbing the coffee table. Dan puts his knee to her back and pushes her down. He drives his blade into her skull. The tip of the steel only enters an inch into the bone. He has to shove his weight down on it and bounce until it buries itself to the hilt. She stops flailing.

  Pieces of glass fall from the window behind him. Dan’s knife remains lodged in the zombie’s skull. Hurriedly he places his foot to her neck as he pulls the blade free with both hands like King Arthur retrieving Excalibur. Her head pulls back with his movement until the knife is freed. Her face bounces off the floor.

  Dan rushes to the curtain by the entertainment center. He picks up his lost rifle and throws the fabric aside only to be startled by red poofy hair and face paint. A zombie stands, staring at Dan, dressed as a clown. It wears wide pants with mismatching suspenders. The jester tries to grab the soldier through a glass sliding door that is between them. It ends up bouncing its head off the invisible barrier with a reverberating thunk. Behind him the windows have given way. A look back and Dan can see the dead pouring into the house like a waterfall of limp bodies. I have no choice, he figures.

  He throws open the sliding glass door. Bozo tries to lunge at him but receives a foot to his chest instead. The sole of Dan’s combat boot lands square in the middle of the clown’s obscenely wide yellow tie. The amusingly clad zombie falls on its back to a concrete slab that serves as this domicile’s patio. Before it can get up its head is stomped into the hard surface by the hurried man.

  The sun shines down into the enclosed yard, the air feels much warmer. All sides of the property are bordered by brown wooden fencing that Dan judges to be at least 8 feet high. Within the yard a dozen pint sized corpses shamble towards the soldier from the right hand side, all wearing festively pointed hats. Despite the horror of seeing children like this Dan knows he has to keep moving. He can hear the dead in the house making their way to join the party.

  The first of the young zombies in his way stands out from the others. He has a blue ribbon pinned to his shirt that reads: Birthday Boy. It’s the guest of honor himself.

  “Happy birthday, Jimbo!” Dan says, swinging his rifle like a bat. The butt connects with Jimmy’s jaw, shattering it as the boy becomes airborne.

  The undead missile lands on a barbeque grill that is belching black smoke from under its lid. His weight causes the grill to topple over; its gas tank flops hard against the ground. Dan passes Jimmy who now flails to get to his feet. The boy’s right arm is on fire. The zombie child looks at the flames with dumb fascination at first, then tries to swat them out with his other hand. The greasy flames spread and soon he is engulfed up to his elbows.

  A hissing sound is escaping from the over turned BBQ. That’s not good, Dan says to himself. He increases his speed as he heads to the fence. He has to bat away the tiny zombies in his path. The soldier vaults up the wooden wall and doesn’t hesitate to look before falling over the other side, deeper down the street and even further from home.

  From the neighboring lawn Dan locates a crack between the boards of the fence. Jimmy’s place is lousy with walking corpses. They pour onto the patio from the sliding door. The birthday boy is now a walking ball of fire that the other dead see, and seem to avoid. They are still coming after Dan, taking a wider approach around the flames.

  “They’re afraid of fire.” Dan deduces. A flash blinds him and his ears are suddenly filled with a loud, painful boom as the propane grill explodes. Although the wooden divider takes the brunt of the force Dan still finds himself on his back.

  The cerulean blue sky slowly comes into focus. He stares up at it, allowing himself time to recover. The lawn is thick and soft beneath him. He would love to lay here for a few hours but he knows he can’t. He has to get home to his wife. One thing troubles him at the moment above all the implausible and awful things he has seen today.

  “Isn’t it a little early i
n the day for a fucking barbecue?” He screams at the fence while kicking the smoldering wood. His futile outburst makes him laugh. He slowly stands up smiling as he brushes himself off. He freezes in place and his smile disappears when he hears a low growl coming from somewhere in the yard.

  6

  “Oh, my God. Did you hear that?” Becka asks in the dark.

  “Yeah.” Derek responds.

  “What was that?”

  “Sounded like an explosion.”

  They cannot see one another. Derek had pulled up the hatch eliminating their main source of light in the home’s crawl space. Small vents in the roof allow thin shafts of daylight in along the old boards above them. This hardly dents the pitch-blackness of their surroundings.

  They sit in silence trying to be as still as possible, listening to the muffled moaning from below. They can hear floorboards creak under the feet of the dead, even through the thick insulation they nest in. The air they breathe is heavy with tension, there are particles in it that scratch their throats and burn their lungs.

  Becka can’t take the silence any more. She needs to speak to her unseen friends. She needs the comfort of communication to alleviate the fear she is feeling.

  “There sure is a lot of this shit.” She says finally in a whisper.

  “What shit?” Derek asks, relieved that someone finally spoke. The growing tightness of his chest is bringing on an asthma attack.

  “This cottony stuff.” Becka points, however the gesture is lost in the darkness.

  “My mom… just had it blown in… with winter coming an all.” He explains between ragged breaths. Stress always seems to bring on these spells. The minute irritants he is taking into his lungs are not helping either.

  “Is this the itchy stuff?” Becka asks. She lifts her hands off of the cloud just in case. She can feel her skin crawling at the thought of it.

  “No… something else.” Derek assures his friend. He concentrates on calming down, and trying not to hear those things below. Stevie is somewhere close by; he can hear the boy breathing in staggered rasps.